Night of the Golden Butterfly

by Tariq Ali

  ‘Grade 6’, said Plato, ‘is recognition that you will never rise in the service. Sub-postmaster for life.’

  Younis roared with laughter. ‘Better than a peon. I just hope I can spend all my summers here till I die.’

  It was barely noon. Younis offered me some locally fermented apricot liquor in my tea. I declined the pleasure, but both of them poured generous helpings into their own bowls. Some friends arrived to post letters and joined us for a while, till their sisters and mothers waiting outside shouted at them. Once they had left, Younis whispered, ‘I hear from Bostaan Khan that the girl from Peshawar will be here next week.’

  Bostaan was an old waiter at the Pines, and a cardsharp. Why had they been gossiping about her?

  ‘Because of you.’

  The previous summer I had made a fool of myself with Greeneyes and she had enjoyed snubbing me in public. One day I noticed her in a corner of the club avidly devouring a letter, obviously a billet-doux. Her white face turned deep red when she saw me.

  ‘Who is the lucky boy?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  But it was. I’d approached Younis, who, as usual, was slightly tipsy. He had become a friend and regaled Zahid and me with stories of ever-so-respectable families being torn asunder by news of constant intrigues and infidelities. How did he know? He read their letters, of course, steaming them open at will and resealing them carefully before delivery. He swore that he only targeted the most snobbish families, the ones who looked down on him and treated him as a serf. I did think of asking him to open the exchange between my parents just to read what they were writing about me, but decided against it on the grounds that there might some embarrassing declarations of love and loyalty. In general it would be accurate to say that what Younis knew, we knew. Today he would be called a hacker and secretly admired, but at the time it was considered quite scandalous and had we spread the word he would have lost his job. Even Zahid, usually immune to ethics, was slightly shocked. We never did betray him. How could we? We were heavily implicated. So Younis was now told what was needed.

  There were no photocopiers then. Every time Lailuma, the golden-haired, green-eyed Pashtun beauty—her name meant Moonlit Night—received or posted a letter, a messenger from Younis, usually the local postman, would rush over to wherever I was and drag me to the post office saying there was an urgent phone call from Zahid in Murree. There were few phones in those days and Zahid often rang. Though the telephone engineer at the exchange often let me use his phone in emergencies and took messages, the only public phone was located in the veranda of the post office.

  In a small back room, I read Lailuma’s letters to her lover regularly and dispassionately. They touched me and were, in any case, far more endearing than her lover’s ultra-emotional, overbearing and permanently embittered tone. She was the constant butt of his irony, but for no reason. He was the type who makes me feel that some of us have more in common with apes than with other men. I gave up all hope. She was obviously in love with this stupid beast. The letters revealed how strongly her parents disapproved of the match. I agreed with their instincts if not their reasoning. The young man came from the wrong social class: his father was a shawl-trader with a stall in the Kissakhani bazaar. Despite my strong interest in her, I would have been on the man’s side in this whole affair had his character been even marginally more attractive. Either he couldn’t express himself properly or he really was obnoxious. After a rambling discussion fuelled by many cups of apricot liquor-laced tea, Younis, Zahid and I agreed that the match should be discouraged.

  A few days before Lailuma left Nathiagali, I found her on her own, seated underneath a chestnut tree not far from Pines Hotel. I hinted that a friend of mine in Peshawar had informed me of her dilemma. She was stunned.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  I then revealed her would-be-lover’s name and his father’s occupation. She nearly fainted.

  ‘Allah help me.’

  ‘He won’t, but I will.’

  ‘You!’

  I calmed her down first and promised that her secret was safely buried in my heart. However, according to my friend who knew her beloved well, it was obvious that he was prone to fits of uncontrollable ill temper and was boorish in other ways too. Was it true, I asked, that his tenderness alternated with fury? If so, his jealous temperament would create insurmountable problems and for no reason at all. If he even saw her talking to a girlfriend he didn’t know, he would lose control. I carried on in this way, describing the worst characteristics of many of my acquaintances. To my astonishment, her startled eyes fixed their gaze on mine and she nodded strongly in agreement.

  ‘Your friend must know him really well. I’m beginning to think exactly the same. I was thinking of breaking off all contact with him, but I delayed writing the letter. I really don’t want him to think my parents have anything to do with it. They’re just stupid. Just because his father sells shawls and furs.’

  ‘That alone would be reason to wed the boy’, I said, ‘especially if the father has a treasure trove of old pashminas and shahtoosh.’

  For the first time ever, she laughed. My heart missed a few beats. There is an awful Punjabi saying that attaches great importance to laughter as an adjunct of sexual conquest, ‘hasi te phasi’ (if she laughs, you’ve trapped her). It was not true, but for once I did believe I had improved my chances. Younis, too, was convinced that this was the case.

  ‘I know these Pashtun girls. They’re much more advanced than your Punjabi beauties. Make your move, my friend. Cement the Punjabi—Pashtun alliance. Give Fatherland something to be proud of.’

  But it was too late to make any further moves that summer. She left a few days later, after we’d exchanged English novels. I had suggested she send the break-off letter from here so that she could start a new chapter in her life when she reached Peshawar and not be bothered by him. She thought this was a good idea. Younis and I both agreed that the letter was beautifully written, extremely dignified and far too generous. She went up even more in my estimation.

  It would have been disloyal if I had kept Plato and Younis in the dark about Jindié, and in Zahid’s absence I needed to talk about her with someone. I told them. Plato was philosophical.

  ‘These things happen. You just need a tiny bit of hope for love to be born. Has she given you cause for hope?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Then you think she has. Well, we’re all here to help.’

  Younis was disappointed. ‘I was imagining you with the moonlit Lailuma, but Allah decides. There is no reason to seal off that option. Am I to open all the letters addressed to the Chinese lady?’

  ‘No,’ I said, mortified by what Jindié might think if she ever found out. ‘Let’s wait.’

  I had sprained my ankle while playing tennis and was incapacitated the day they arrived, but ordered a horse and rode over to the Pines the next day to pay my respects and drag Confucius to the old club. When Jindié saw me being helped down from the horse she burst out laughing, stopping only when she noticed that I was limping with the help of a stick.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I just never imagined you on horseback. You’re hurt?’ I explained. Confucius had gone in search of me. How we missed each other I don’t know, but Mrs Ma ordered some tea and Bostaan duly arrived with a tray and some truly terrible cucumber sandwiches made with stale bread, lightly soaked in water to make it appear fresh. He gave me a knowing smile, which could only mean that Younis had alerted him to my state of mind.

  I warned Jindié and her mother against eating too often in the hotel and told Bostaan to offer the sandwiches to my horse, which he promptly did, only to have them rejected by the animal. This caused general merriment and a cheerful Mrs Ma went indoors to unpack.

  ‘It’s really beautiful here. You’ve been here every summer since you were two?’

  I nodded, trying not to look at her too openly. She was wearing a blouse over a pair of black trousers and her hair was in a bu
n held together by ivory clips.

  ‘My foot is on the mend and in a few days I’ll be walking again. We’re all going up that mountain. Mukshpuri. A path leads to it from the other side of this hotel. The grown-ups usually stop halfway up, at Lalazar, where everyone eats lunch after we kids have returned from the summit.’

  ‘And after lunch?’

  ‘We pick daisies, sing, listen to Zahid play the accordion, tell stories and then come down and light a fire.’

  ‘Where will you light the fire?’

  Before I could control myself the words slipped out. ‘In your heart.’ She became agitated and stood up as if to leave. I was spared the agony of her departure by the appearance of an out-of-breath Confucius.

  ‘One more thing, Jindié,’ I said, wanting to make up for my mistake. ‘You must walk a lot over the next few days to acclimatize. Otherwise your legs will be stiff after we climb the mountain.’

  ‘I suppose your legs are never stiff.’

  ‘Only because I walk several miles a day.’

  ‘On horseback?’ She laughed again and disappeared. I sighed with relief. I took Confucius to the bazaar and introduced him to Younis. Later that day Zahid arrived to stay with me for a few days and prepare for the Mukshpuri climb. In the evening I hobbled with him to the club. While everyone was playing tennis and ping-pong, I retired to the library and relieved the volunteer librarian for a few hours. Jindié came in to look at the books and said, ‘Colonial rubbish.’

  I had no idea she was that way inclined and was quite delighted, but felt the library had to be defended.

  ‘The best books have been stolen. Only the rubbish is left, but there are a few others. Pearl S. Buck is quite readable.’

  ‘What? Are you mad or just stupid? Every literate Chinese laughs at her.’

  ‘Could that be because she describes the lowest depths of Chinese society and some literate Chinese find that embarrassing? I have to admit I learned a great deal from her books.’

  ‘That’s only because you’re ignorant and know nothing about China.’

  ‘True. One has to start somewhere. She got the Nobel Prize for no reason?’

  ‘Those idiots in Stockholm were ignorant, just like you. They were taken in by missionary sensitivities. Have you read The Dream of the Red Chamber?’

  ‘I tried, but the official translation is unreadable. Is it available in English?’

  ‘How do I know? My father is the expert on all this and will also know the best translation.’

  ‘In Punjabi, I hope. Confucius is a true Punjabi. He has assimilated every Lahori prejudice, including that profound malice against the cultured refugees who crossed the Jumna and found themselves in an illiterate hell.’

  She laughed and lit the room, just as a whole gang of kids arrived to borrow books, disturbing our very first conversation. The day we climbed the mountain, Jindié, forgetful of her customary reserve, suddenly took my arm—a coup de foudre if ever there was one—and as come of the party looked askance, she pretended she had slipped. The gesture, however, had been noticed, and knowing looks were exchanged. Strange how the exchangers of knowing looks never realize that one can see them.

  Lailuma arrived the following day, together with her extended family, and instantly became part of our crowd. She was in remarkably good spirits, understood perfectly that Jindié and I had become close and played the part of chaperone to perfection. She was now engaged to a lawyer she liked and thanked me again in Jindié’s presence for all my help last year. Strange, I thought to myself, how my desire for her had disappeared so completely. Love of the sort I felt for the Butterfly had a side effect, in the shape of what can only be the drollest of virtues: chastity.

  Once we were alone, Jindié wanted to know the whole truth. Instinctively she had guessed that my motives in helping the Peshawari princess had not been totally pure. I told her the truth, concealing nothing, but made her pledge she would never reveal the sub-postmaster’s role. She agreed, but let me know that she thought what we did was despicable.

  ‘The end justifies the means.’

  ‘Have you instructed him to open my mail as well?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘If you do I’ll never speak to you again.’

  ‘If I did, you’d never know.’

  ‘I would. I know your type better than you think. Spoilt Punjabi boys who think there are no rules in society. Anyway, most of the letters I get are from friends or my father, and they all write in Mandarin, so neither you nor that creepy postmaster would ever be able to read them.’

  ‘Creepy sub-postmaster, you mean.’ Jindié hit me on the arm with a clenched fist. ‘Would you like to know what some of our acquaintances are writing home about you and me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I said.’

  ‘Have you read anything?

  ‘A detailed letter from that buck-toothed girl you really like because she constantly flatters you. She wrote about us to her best friend in Multan. It’s ugly. Guess what. A new romance is brewing in the hills, like mountain chai. You’ll never believe it. Dara and Jindié, that Chinese girl who’s at college with me. They’re so shameless. They can barely keep their hands off each other. They watch each other all the time.’

  Jindié laughed. ‘You are evil, but I’m warning you ...’

  ‘Why should I want to read your letters?’

  ‘Curiosity. Jealousy. Possessiveness. Imbecility. All the Punjabi virtues. Your choice as to which applies best to you.’

  ‘I won’t read your letters, but get a sense of proportion. What you call Punjabi virtues are really universal. We’re just more open. Less subtle, but also less hypocritical.’

  She smiled and I wanted to kiss her lips, but was too scared to do so because of the proximity of Mrs Ma, who now called for her daughter to come indoors. Had the old lady been eavesdropping as she watched the sun set from the cottage window?

  When I reported this conversation to Plato and Zahid, they both agreed that there was little doubt that she loved me, and we discussed how to move forward. Zahid argued in favour of proposing marriage, but this was foolish since I had promised my parents I’d go study law in Britain. It was too early for any talk of marriage, and I dreaded the thought of saying anything to my mother, in many ways a deeply conservative person with fixed ideas on these matters. Plato advised a long engagement that would signify commitment and, no doubt, Jindié could also go abroad. The final decision could be left till later. A long engagement wasn’t appealing, but it made sense. The three of us agreed that this was what should be done once the summer was over. Before proceeding, I had to make sure that Jindié was in favour of this solution.

  That last summer in Nathiagali was dominated by a process that I have already referred to earlier in connection with someone else, the process a lovelorn Stendhal described as crystallization in his compendium Love:

  At the salt mines of Salzburg, they throw a leafless wintry bough into one of the abandoned workings. Two or three months later they haul it out covered with a shining deposit of crystals. The smallest twig, no bigger than a tomtit’s claw, is studded with a galaxy of scintillating diamonds. The original branch is no longer recognizable.

  What I have called crystallization is a mental process which draws from everything that happens new proofs of the perfection of the loved one ... one of your friends goes hunting, and breaks his arm: wouldn’t it be wonderful to be looked after by the woman you love! To be with her all the time and to see her loving you ... a broken arm would be heaven ...

  Admittedly my sprained ankle and ride to her front door had produced different results, but the thought behind it, on my part, had been the same. All of my thoughts that summer were a maturation of the crystallization process. One evening, all of us young people were invited to dinner in Kalabagh, an Air Force recreation centre a few miles away from Nathia. Our hosts were two Pashtun friends, Lailuma’s cousins, whose father was a senior Air Force officer. It was an
idyllic evening. The sky was beautiful, but it was getting chilly and we draped ourselves in shawls. Lailuma greeted us on arrival and I told her we were wearing the shawls to mark her escape from the shawl merchant’s son. She ignored me for the rest of the evening.

  We carried torches for the return journey. I have no memory of anything else that happened that evening except the fact that Jindié and I abandoned all pretence. We walked next to each other. We talked only to one another and on the way back we took advantage of the dark and held hands. Lailuma came close to us and whispered, ‘Be careful’, but we were beyond caution and asked her to walk with us. The full moon was waning, but when we reached the old church in Nathia we could still see its light illuminating Nanga Parbat, the third-highest peak in the Himalayas. There were two or three special places where that peak could be observed, and so our party split up: Jindié, Lailuma and I went to the observation spot behind the lightning-scarred church. The others disappeared elsewhere.

  ‘Jindié.’

  ‘I know.’

  We embraced each other, and I stroked her cheeks, but nothing more. We declared our love and I suggested we immediately get engaged to prevent our respective parents from thinking about other alternatives. She held me tight, kissed my eyes. We were surprised by our audacity and laughed about it at the time. Before we could continue the discussion, we heard Lailuma shouting our names as a warning. We walked away and joined her and the rest. Neither of us spoke till we reached the Pines Hotel. Then Zahid and I walked back another mile to my house and I told him. There was another member of our party that evening: Jamshed had arrived to stay with a cousin in Doongagali, but given his weak, cowardly and contemptible character, I’m trying to avoid mention of him as much as I can in this account. Plato despised him and I never told him about Jindié, though he probably found out, since it was hardly a secret anymore.